


Then Time Stood Still

by Levana (galakticfinn)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:05:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13771551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galakticfinn/pseuds/Levana
Summary: He didn't want to believe it, George tried to deny the truth that was right in front of him. At a certain point though, he couldn't continue to deny it. The missing presence by his side, the second half of a joke that was left unsaid, left a gaping hole in his heart. It was the missing hand on the famous Weasley clock though, that was final piece of evidence. After seeing that, George couldn’t deny it anymore; Fred was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.





	Then Time Stood Still

**Author's Note:**

> What up. Well, this is my first HP fanfic in like seven years? Feels good to be back in my original fandom, it's like I'm coming home lol (and I'm staying because I'm basically done with any Star Wars related fandom stuff for the foreseeable future). Anyway, this was written for a challenge on a Harry Potter Forum.

One decision. In the end that’s all that it took to make everything come crashing down. One wrong decision that he would have to live with for the rest of his life. One wrong decision that cost him everything and left him with nothing. Nothing but the guilt. Nothing but the pain.

_“You go on. We’ll stay back and deal with this git.”_

George wished for a moment that he hadn’t walked into the Great Hall. Sobs echoed around the room; it was a stark contrast to the way George was used to seeing it – filled with happy and carefree students. Now, the dead had been laid along the middle of the Great Hall and were surrounded by their sobbing loved ones. His eyes scanned the room and he stopped short when he caught sight of a crowd of flaming, red hair.

The breath rushed out of him and then time stood still. There were two faces missing: Fred and Ron. His hands shook. He didn’t want to know who was lying on the floor surrounded by the rest of his grieving family – his little brother or his twin _._ He couldn’t bear the thought of either. He didn’t _want_ to know, but he also needed to know. He felt sick with himself when a thought entered his mind – _“Please don’t be Fred” –_ because if it wasn’t Fred there was only one other person it could be.

It seemed to take ages to run the short distance to his family. With every step that he took he wished that he was just having a nightmare. Maybe he’d been knocked out and any minute now Fred would be reviving him with a goofy grin plastered across his face and a teasing glint in his eyes.

But that never happened.

His heart skipped a beat when he stopped beside Charlie and saw who it was. His older brother dropped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer, but George didn’t react. For one moment – one wild moment -  George thought he was looking down at a Boggart. He remembered all too well the last time he’d come face to face with a boggart. The nightmares had left him in a cold sweat for months, despite Fred’s constant reassurances that everything would be okay – _that it wouldn’t ever happen._

But Fred had been wrong. Everything _wasn’t_ okay.

George fell to his knees by his twin’s head, not daring to believe the sight before his eyes. It was straight from his worst nightmares, the one thing that he prayed he would never see. Numbness spread through him as he knelt there, looking at the mirror of his own face. Brushing Fred’s hair away from his face, George noticed how peaceful Fred looked – it looked like he could have been sleeping.

Feeling detached from himself, all George could do was stare blankly at his twin. He refused to accept the truth. Fred couldn’t be… _dead_. Fred who was so exuberant, so confident, and so outgoing couldn’t be _gone_. He couldn’t be. He just _couldn’t_.

But Fred didn’t move when George cried out for his twin to wake up.

It wasn’t until Ron appeared with Harry and Hermione that George felt himself break. Scrambling to his feet, George grabbed his younger brother and reassured himself that Ron was alive. He pulled Ron into a hug and buried his face in the taller boy’s shoulder. Ron immediately wrapped his arms around George, letting his brother’s tears soak into his sweater.

***

With Harry gone it truly felt like all was lost. How could they hope to survive when even The Boy Who Lived couldn’t? How could they hope to stand against such hatred when they were so outnumbered? He tried to feel hope when Neville stood up against Voldemort, he really did, but it seemed so hopeless.

Then Harry was _not_ dead. A gasp went through the crowd when they realized Harry was no longer lying at Voldemort’s feet. In the background, George could hear Hagrid yelling _“where’s Harry?”_ but he didn’t hear him because just like that he felt _hope_ again. He was already turning to his left, Fred’s name on his lips as he was getting ready to celebrate with his twin, but all there was beside him was empty air.

And then he remembered.

The battle was a blur to George. Everything missed him, every killing curse – which was _mildly_ disappointing (even though George knew his twin wouldn’t want him to think like that). George just didn’t care anymore because Fred was lying completely still on the floor. He barely even reacted when Voldemort’s body fell to the ground.

They’d won… but to George it felt like they’d lost; his world had ended, though it continued around him. While everyone else cheered over the demise of Lord Voldemort, George blinked back tears. The reality of his twin’s…. the reality came crashing back down on him.  The missing presence of his twin was even more evident now, with the adrenaline of battle fading away. How many times over the past couple months had he and Fred joked about how it would end. They talked about how they couldn’t wait for Harry to defeat the old codger so they could get back to their shop.

The reality was so much different. There was no feeling of utter relief. There was just an empty, hollow feeling of despair. Fred wasn’t there, grinning from ear to ear. Fred wasn’t there, cracking jokes about Voldemort’s death. Fred wasn’t there beside him. Fred wasn’t there.

Fred was lying in the middle of the Great Hall, covered in the grime of battle beside Remus and Tonks. Though part of him felt guilty about it, George found that he couldn’t really bring himself to care much about them – not when Fred was…Neither one of them were his twin.

George looked over to where his twin was, once again, surrounded by his family. His mum wasn’t near as hysteric has she had been before, now she was hugging Ginny tightly and staring blankly at Fred. His eyes trailed over to where Ron was sitting with Hermione, he looked like he was in shock and his hands were visibly shaking. Looking away, George felt sick again as he remembered his thoughts from earlier – how he wished he’d find Ron dead instead of Fred. George stood by himself, eyes trained on the ground and trying to rationalize reality with himself.

He couldn’t.

***

As far back as he could remember, Fred had always been there. With a family as large as theirs, the twins had always had to rely on each other. Being the middle children, they were sometimes sidelined, not at the fault of their parents or their siblings but because they chose not to bother them with their problems.

Fred had always been George’s confidant. Being the more outgoing of the two, Fred tended to take the more comforting role – he never seemed to let anything bother him. Most people didn’t know, since they just saw him as a goofy prankster (which he was), but George was more reserved than Fred and tended to show his emotions more (not that anyone ever noticed that).

When George had cried over Ginny, Fred had been there for him. When George had cried over Percy leaving, Fred had been there for him. When George had nightmares for months after finding a Boggart in a suit of armor, Fred had been there for him. When George worried endlessly about Ron running off with Harry and Hermione, Fred had been there for him. Fred had always been there when George needed him.

Now, as the breeze played with his hair and he stood before his family preparing to a deliver a eulogy for his twin, George realized that (until now) he didn’t have many memories that didn’t involve Fred. Fred was his best friend and his partner in crime. Tears clouded his vision at the thought.

He was surrounded by his family, yet George had never felt more alone.

The next moment was probably the hardest moment of his life. Behind him lay his twin and before him, his family and friends. Honestly, he wasn’t sure how he managed to make it through his speech without completely breaking down in front of everyone. He drew in a shuddering breath when he was finished, his eyes misting again, and willed himself to stay strong in front of everyone. After another deep breath, he returned to his seat between Ron and Percy – Percy gave him a watery smile of encouragement, his eyes red rimmed and puffy behind his glasses.

George looked at the elegant, mahogany casket that held his twin. Bill, Charlie, and Percy had pitched in to get it; George should have, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to buy his own twin’s coffin. He stared at the coffin for a moment longer before standing up silently and walking away. Walking away from his own twin’s funeral probably wasn’t the best idea – and maybe he’d regret it in the future – but George just couldn’t take it anymore, not when it was his fault.

So, he did the only thing he knew how to do these days: avoid his feelings.

Eventually, George found a tree and sat down against it. It was sunny, the sun was shining bright down on them, but it was pleasant. A cool breeze came through now and again. Birds twittered happily in the trees and the sky was blue, not a cloud in sight. It would have been the perfect day for a game of Quidditch.

“What’re you doing?”

George sighed when somebody sat down heavily beside him. “Go away, Ron.”

“Look, I know you’re upset –“

“You don’t get it!” George snapped, cutting Ron off.

Ron narrowed his red, bloodshot eyes darkly at George. “He’s my brother too, you know. In case you forgot.” He said coolly.

George picked idly at the grass. “Don’t you mean _was_?” George muttered bitterly, “And that’s not what I meant you prat.” He paused, angrily throwing grass to the ground stood up. “It’s my _fault!”_

“What?” Ron furrowed his brow in confusion.

“It doesn’t matter.” He apparated away with a loud _crack_ before Ron could say anything more.

***

At least an inch of dust layered every surface in the flat. George hadn’t bothered to clean since he started living in the flat again. In fact, he’d hardly moved at all, barely eating and only getting up to use the toilet. How long had it been? One month? Two? _Three?_ Every day bled into the next and with each day that passed so did George’s will to continue. It was a little surprising that Ron hadn’t come looking for him after their little spat – it wasn’t like Ron to leave something like that alone (people didn’t usually give him enough credit, but Ron cared deeply for his older brothers).

If he was being honest with himself, George was actually a bit hurt that Ron hadn’t immediately followed him. Despite what he said and how he acted, George needed someone. He needed _Ron_ , though he wouldn’t admit it. Aside from Fred, George had been closest to Ron (surprisingly, Ron had always come to him and Fred when he needed help – now it was the opposite).

With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet from where he’d been sitting on the floor against the couch and shuffled into the bathroom. He splashed water on his face, attempting to scrub the grime and dried tears from his face. He grabbed the nearest towel to dry his face. Looking up after wiping his eyes, he froze. He’d grabbed the towel he had pinned over the mirror by mistake and now looking back at him was Fred.

He looked gaunt and paler, much paler than usual, with eyes swollen from what looked like days of constant crying. The face in the mirror showed a look of shock and anger before it settled on a look of pure _longing_. George ignored the fact that the face in the mirror was missing an ear and that it had the beginnings of a red beard that Fred would never have left on his face. He didn’t register that the red hair was much longer than Fred’s had been because all he saw looking back at him was Fred -  not himself.

George drew in a shuddering breath as he looked in the mirror then suddenly lashed out and punched it. In hindsight, punching the mirror hadn’t been the best idea he’d ever had. It hadn’t had the desired effect – shattering the glass and never seeing his twin’s face again. Instead he howled in pain as every bone in his hand and wrist felt like it was shattering with a sickening _crunch_. The mirror remained intact, Fred looking back at him with his face now red and twisted with pain.

He fell to the floor, narrowly missing the sink with his head, and cradled his bloody, broken hand to his chest. His body trembled as he tried to breath through the pain, but the longer he sat the harsher his breaths grew. George was vaguely aware that he should heal his hand, but he couldn’t remember what the spell was through the haze of pain.

There was a _CRACK_ as someone apparated into the flat. Someone called his name and he heard footsteps running through the rooms as whoever it was looked for him. George let out a feeble, exhausted moan of pain and the footsteps paused before –

_“George!”_

Someone rushed into the bathroom and knelt frantically beside George on the cold tile. They brushed the hair away from George’s eyes – George recognized the “somebody” as Ron – and started checking him for injuries. Ron breathed out a _“Blimey”_ when he finally managed to coax George into relinquishing his injured hand.

“What the _bloody_ hell happened?” Ron asked, examining his brother’s hand carefully. He was deciding if he should attempt to heal it; he wasn’t terribly skilled at healing spells.

“Punched the mirror,” George mumbled, hissing in pain at Ron’s surprisingly gentle ministrations.

Ron frowned in confusion. His eyes flicked up to the mirror and landed on George’s reflection. He closed his eyes when he realized _why_ his older brother had punched a mirror. Just like everyone else, George saw Fred looking back when he saw his face but, Ron reasoned, it was so much worse from George’s point of view.

Ron came to a decision then and pulled out his wand, pointing it at George’s hand. “Episkey.”

A hot-cold feeling spread through George’s hand and the pain lessened somewhat. He looked down at his hand; it was still broken and swollen, but Ron had managed to fix the skin and a few of the bones. He let Ron grasp his other hand and felt himself being pulled to his feet. George swayed for a moment before leaning heavily against Ron.

Ron took George’s hand in his own again and examined it, “That’s the best I could do, mate.” He grimaced, imagining it was still quite painful. “Mum should be able to fix it up better back home.”

“I don’t want –“ George started to complain but Ron cut him off.

“I’m not giving you a choice. You clearly can’t stay by yourself.”

George sighed but conceded Ron’s point. His little brother was right, though he didn’t want to admit it because that meant admitting that he needed help (which meant he would be admitting there was a problem). That was something he just _wasn’t_ going to do, not yet anyway – since he had firmly convinced himself that he was fine (despite the current evidence).

“How’d you know to find me?” George whispered?

“I’d like to say brotherly instinct,” Ron sighed, a hint of amusement coloring his voice before he became worried again, “but it was because your hand switched to injured on the clock.”

Ron grabbed George’s hand. He wondered briefly if it would be safe for George to apparate in his current exhausted, but he figured there wasn’t another option right now.

***

The minute that he and Ron arrived at the Burrow, George wanted to disappear. Everyone seemed to be uncomfortable around him, like the didn’t know what to do or say around him – except for his mum. She began fussing over him immediately, fixing his hand and then pulling him into a crushing hug. He looked over his mum’s shoulder at the clock and stiffened.

It felt like it was really being confirmed for the first time. He’d known the whole time, even if he had been refusing to accept the truth, but to having it staring him in the face now… he couldn’t ignore it; Fred’s hand was gone from the clock.

He extricated himself from his mother’s grip and pulled away. Running his fingers through his dirty hair, George cleared his throat awkwardly and mumbled something about going to take a shower. He backed out of the room before his family could saying anything else and headed up to his old room with the intention of grabbing some spare clothes.

He threw open the door to his room and froze. His eyes swept around the bedroom from where he stood in the doorway. It was exactly as they had left it before going into hiding. His parents evidently hadn’t started to clear it out. Their belongings were still boxed up, the ones he and Fred had never gotten around to moving to Diagon Alley. Eyes landing on the rumbled quilt on Fred’s bed, he inhaled sharply. George could almost see the ghost of his twin sitting there, glancing furtively at the door while they drafted their joke shop order forms.

Abruptly, George backed out of the room and slammed the door shut. Every eye was on him when he stomped back into the kitchen, it was like they were all holding their breath while they waited to see what he would do. They tried to hide it, but he could see how his family flinched when they looked at him and he _hated_ it. Pushing past Bill, George shoved the door open and ran outside into the dusk.

And he kept running.

He kept running even after he had a stitch in his side. What was he even running from? The truth? The memory of his twin? He didn’t know, but it was easier to run away than to confront his problems. Maybe it was the cowardly way, but he didn’t really care. Bravery wasn’t particularly his strong suit at the moment. So, he ran with no where in mind to go; just away.

Then he tripped. George went crashing down in the tall grass of the fields that surrounded The Burrow.  His chest heaved, his lungs burned, and sweat stung his eyes. Letting out a scream of frustration, George started crying. His palms stung from the fall and a rock dug painfully into his cheek, but he didn’t care. George just didn’t _care_ anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. Life had lost all meaning because Fred was _dead_.

Fred had died and left George behind.

Anger rushed through him then. An intense anger and _hatred_ directed at Fred. Logically he knew that he shouldn’t be mad at Fred; he knew that he shouldn’t hate Fred. But he did. He _hated_ Fred for dying and leaving him alone. Dying had given Fred the better end of the deal. He didn’t have to deal with the grief. He didn’t have to deal with the anger. He didn’t have to deal with the _guilt_.

There was the sound of running footsteps followed by, _“George!_ ”

George sighed when he recognized Ron’s voice and rolled over onto his back. He squinted when wand light landed on him, and he sat up.

“You can’t keep going on like this,” Ron said, looking down at George (who was now staring at his lap and steadfastly ignoring Ron’s gaze).

When George didn’t respond, Ron sat carefully down across from George. He ignored the dampness of the ground, getting his older brother to open up and stop behaving like this was more important than getting his bottom wet. He waited for George to look at him, but he didn’t – George just continued to stare at his trembling hands.

“Fred –“ George flinched violently at the sound of his twin’s name, “ – wouldn’t want you to keep on with this… self-destructive behavior.”

“But it’s _my_ fault,” George whispered at length. “It should have been me,” he added as an afterthought.

Ron froze, trying to think about what to say to his brother. His first instinct was to immediately tell George not to say that, that it wasn’t true, but that wouldn’t do anything – George would just ignore him. The best thing to do would be to get George to talk about his feelings.

“You have no _idea_ , Ron,” George spat in disgust and he jumped to his feet. “You know what I thought when I walked into the Great Hall? When I saw everyone gathered around someone and I didn’t see you or Fred I thought, _“I hope it’s not Fred.”_ How _fucked_ up is that? I wished my little brother was dead.”

Ron let out a breath and looked at his older brother – George was now staring off into the distance as he stood awkwardly above Ron. So _that_ was why George wouldn’t meet his eyes, tried to _avoid_ him. Because he felt _guilty._ Now he realized that George’s anger was internalized and directed at himself.

“Do you –“ Ron started, but broke off; he didn’t know how to word his question. He stood up and laid his hand gently on George’s shoulder, urging his brother to look at him. “Do you wish I’d died instead of Fred?” Ron asked once George finally met his eyes. “Right now? Do you wish Fred was here instead of me?”

_“No!”_ George broke away from Ron’s hold and stumbled back a few paces. “You’re my little _brother_ , Ron. I’m supposed to be there for you and _protect_ you. If you had died I don’t know what I –“ George broke off, not knowing how to articulate his feelings.

If Ron had _died –_ if _Ickle Ronniekins_ had died – George shuddered at the thought. He missed his twin, but he didn’t want Ron dead in Fred’s place – that he knew for sure. He jerked in surprise when Ron abruptly pulled him into a hug. He was certain that Ron would have hated him after his confession.

“You don’t hate me?” he mumbled.

Ron shook his head, “What you thought then doesn’t matter, it’s what you think now.”

George buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. “I _hate_ him,” he sobbed out, “why’d he have to die?”

Ron closed his eyes and willed away the burn of tears in his eyes, trying to keep himself together for George. “I don’t know, but Fred would want you to move on.”

“I don’t think I can,” George said, shaking his head against Ron’s shoulder.

***

The sun was shining, and the birds were chirping. The wind blew gently, causing the leaves to dance. George stood rigidly beside Ron. He didn’t particularly want to be here, not again, but he understood why Ron had brought him here. He didn’t _like_ it, but he understood.

Ron gave George a little nudge in the shoulder, urging him forward. With a sigh and a look over at his younger brother, George nodded and walked forward. Ron stayed back as George walked up to his twin’s grave; Ron was close enough to lend his support, but far enough to give George the privacy that he needed for this.

George swallowed back the lump in his throat and knelt in the grass, his knees mere inches from Fred’s headstone. He reached out with his left hand and brushed lightly over his twin’s name while his other hand idly twisted the grass beneath it. _Here lies Fred Weasley. 1 April 1978 – 2 May 1998. Mischief Managed._ He let his fingers brush over the “mischief managed.” The words had been Harry’s idea (George hadn’t been in a state at the time to care what was written on his twin’s headstone) and George was glad they were there.

“I wish you were here, Freddie,” George whispered. “I miss you. I’ve been taking care of Ronniekins without you,” George paused and looked back at Ron before looking back at the headstone, “though I think he’s taking better care of _me_ right now.”

George fell silent then before he stood up, his gaze lingering on the headstone. The sound of soft footfalls indicated that Ron was walking up to him. The next moment Ron came to a stop beside him, nudging playfully into George’s side. George cracked a small smile at the gesture, but that was it – he wasn’t fully there yet. But it was a start.

“You okay?” Ron asked softy.

“No,” George said truthfully, “and I don’t think I ever will be, but…” George looked over and met his brother’s eyes, “you’re right… Fred would want me to continue living.”

“It’s a start.”

George nodded in agreement and looked back down at Fred’s headstone. “It’s a start,” he agreed softly.

And then time seemed to resume.


End file.
